Where the Grapes of Wrath Are Stored
by Macho Man Randy Quaid
Summary: A fanfic chronicling the end of the American Civil War. America will end this thing, but he will be forever changed either way, and even afterwards, there will be no peace.
1. 1) The High Watermark

Chapter One: The High Watermark

* * *

It was afternoon of July the Third. Two o'clock. Alfred stood there at a crevice in a long stone wall, which the men call the angle. It divided a field in the outskirts of Gettysburg. Alfred had a strong division of his loyal troops behind him. They reinforced the angle with a strong wall of their own. A long wall of navy blue. With determination on their faces, they awaited patiently the impending attack. They would resist the Confederate advancement at any and all cost. So would he. Alfred had been fighting him for three straight days. Today, he had to deal with a long artillery barrage. But he came through unfazed. Despite this, he felt strong. He felt invigorated and determined.

"This is it yet, bros!" he yelled to his troops behind him, but also to him across the field. "This is where the tide changes. I can feel it!"

Hazlett was up on the Round Top with his guns. The fight to secure it was fierce. Alfred was there with his Maine Regiment on the first day when they fought of his 'brother's' back for what felt infinity. Like a couple of alchemists, they turned the air into a black cloud of lead. The field changed hands five times in two hours. Hell, Alfred thought for a second that he nearly knocked Texas right off of his 'brother's' face*! But his kept their demeanor and they won the day. Perhaps even the battle. He was never prouder of his boys from Maine, the farthest Northern state pushing back the tide of the South. Now, they have the upper hand, and after many defeats at the hands of the impostor he was feeling strong again. For the first time in two bloody years, he felt that he was at full capacity. The blood was coursing through his veins unopposed. Aside from the guns on the Round Tops, there were more on Cemetery Ridge and even more stationed behind his position. Products of industry, they were the source of his strength.

Across the field, he was also amassing with his troops. For one last charge, something he hoped would break the stalemate. They saw each other. His 'twin' stepped forward in a gallant stride, as cocky as ever. "Hey, Union!" he shouted, fixing the stolen glasses on his face. "This is your last chance to just surrender the field to us. We'll let ya run 'way then! Jus' as ye always do!"

Alfred grimaced. "You're not getting passed," he yelled. "Your advance stops here, Confederacy!"

He chuckled heartily. "Good!" the Confederate States yelled back, "It's always more fun to beat ye after a battle." He turned back and gathered with his men.

The gray men began to slip into their positions. The Union were dazzled by the spectacle of hundreds of Confederate men marching in unison with their garish rad flags soaring gallantly. General Pickett walked ahead of them, and he stood beside the Confederacy."You ready to break this line, son?" he told his country. The Confederacy smiled, "Don't ask me loaded questions," the Confederacy chuckled. "Right, let's go then," he turned back to the gray columns, and addressed them. "Up men and to your posts. Never forget that today you are from ol' Virginia."

"Whatever you all do," Alfred yelled back to his men. "DON'T LET THEM THROUGH! NOT ONE! Their advance stops here!"

"YESSIR!" The troops saluted to him. Alfred turned back towards his 'brother,' and he awaited the charge. They were quiet. He saw some columns of his boys in gray moving forward slowly. They were silent. They weren't even yelling that rebel yell of theirs. "Do not hurry men and fire to fast," Alfred heard General Gibbon cooly declare, "Let them come up close before you fire. And then aim slow."

Alfred sighed as the suspense grew. He couldn't attest to enjoying, "this awful universe of battle," as one of his privates had put it earlier today during the barrage. His citizens slaying each other, it made him sick. Lincoln kept reminding him that there was a purpose to all of this. That out of all this destruction, something higher would be built. That he would be a stronger country. A better country. He hoped he was right. He knew he was, but he hoped for it still. Prayed for it. Because despite their red banner, underneath those gray uniforms were boys just as American as those in blue. To believe otherwise would make his 'brother' real. And he wasn't real - Alfred wouldn't accept him as so.

Tides and tides of gray continued to flow almost seamlessly into their respective positions. The silence created a shroud of suspense that descended on and blanketed the field. Alfred and his men transcended it. But so did the Confederates.

Alfred didn't think that he'd ever be ready for it, but then it split the air. "EEEEEHHHHHHHHHEYHEYHEYHEYHEYHEYHEYHEYHEYGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH! The rebel yell!

Hazlett ordered his batteries to fire. BAM! An entire column of gray boys went down. Cemetery Ridge followed suit. BAM! More Confederates fell to pieces. The cannons behind Alfred's group were given the command to fire as well. An entire legion of men of evaporated. Red flags were reduced to ash. Alfred felt some pains as entire columns of his people were wiped out in a second, but he remained steadfast. He had to be full of resolve to meet the one responsible for all this.

Despite the hailstorm of bullets and bombs and the lightning storms of blood and guts, the grays kept coming and hollering all the way across the field. Alfred didn't fire at one of them, but his army did. More and more of his citizens were severed from the Earth from speeding balls of lead. Only group managed to reach the wall despite the near astronomical odds. His group. He came rushing up at the pace of hell.

"Here I am, North!" he yelled as he and the surviving Confederates ran towards them. Alfred and his men strengthened their hold. The mass of Americans collided into each other. The stone wall stood between them, except for the small breach. It was at this breach where Alfred and his 'brother' fought at each other.

"Grrrr! You're weak, Union! You're soft! You're bleeding heart liberal ideals you've been thinking have made you inferior! I'm America now!"

"NO!" Alfred retorted. "You're the weak one! You're nothing more than a delusion! You have no concept of what America is! OF WHO I AM!"

Alfred maneuvered his rifle in a gap between his 'brother's' and his chest, and he used the leeway to leg sweep him. The Confederacy fell over with Alfred on top of him. They both groaned as they went down. Confederacy tried to regain his balance quickly. Alfred did as well. Perched up against the stone wall, he pushed himself back up. Confederacy used his rifle for support. He left his side expose, and Alfred, with rifle still firmly in hand thrusted his bayonet into his side.

"GAH!" Confederacy let out a painful moan! "Goddamn!" he yelled. It hurt. It actually hurt. _That can't be!_ He thought. _Nations can't hurt from conventional weapons alone, unless…unless…._ He fell backwards on the ground and writhed in pain. Alfred stepped over the wall, and looked down on him. His men started to crawl over. The Confederates who managed to hop the fence were all either captured or killed. A line of corpses littered the field behind him. The charge had failed. This battle was lost. Confederacy slowly rose as felt the strong urge to flee. Alfred held up his rifle with intention to stab him further. But he hesitated as a sensation overwhelmed him. He found that he couldn't do it. On his feet, South took advantage of his hesitation and painfully limped away back to the Confederate lines. Alfred dropped his gun and just watched his limping descent.

* * *

Once back, Confederacy limped up to medical tent. "Agh!" he yelled painfully, as he sat down. The medics immediately attended to him. "NO!" he yelled. "I'm a nation! I'm fine! Care for the people. Just bring me the whiskey."

The medics complied and went back to their patients. One of them brought him a whiskey. He proceeded to drink. "Oh, God! That's good." General Pickett walked his way. "Pickett!" he yelled. Pickett came over to him. Both of them felt a melancholic air in the other.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Pickett didn't answer him. He had no words for his country.

Noticing his country holding his sides, he tried to ask, "Are...are you-" He stopped, and examined him. He saw his eyes. He already knew the answer.

Robert E. Lee rode up to the tent. "Pickett, there you are!" In a demanding manner. "Assemble whatever remains of your division. We might be able to do a counterattack."

"General," Pickett stood up. He looked up at Lee and yelled, "I have no division now!" He tossed his cap to the ground and walked away. Confederacy looked over and saw Longstreet slump in a chair. He limped over to him. "James," he asked, "ye alright?"

Longstreet left his trance and looked at his country. "This ground was of no strategic value," he said. He looked back away. "This is the worst day of my life."

Lee said nothing for most of the slow march back to Virginia. Confederacy rode alongside him as he had always done. He looked out at the battered men. He could feel them. Beyond demoralized. It hurt more than the wound in his side. It was so surreal. Not even a week before they were all energized and taunted the Northerners as they marched through Maryland and Pennsylvania. He was was energized.

_Is this the beginning...? _he thought to himself.

"Hey," General Lee addressed him.

He snapped out of it. "Yes, Uncle Bobby?" said the nation.

"Are you alright, son?" Lee asked. "Your wound...it's not too severe, is it?" Confederacy smiled and said, "I'm good. Just a bit licked. I'll get 'im next time, though." He believed, he thought. Lee tried to.

"I think I'll resign," he whispered to the nation.

Confederacy was taken aghast, "Ah? What're you sayin'?"

"Yessir," Lee continued. "This was all my fault. I believed us to be invincible and I was wrong to. I failed these men, I failed myself, and I failed you. I'm gonna resign."

"A younger man, a fresh man," he continued, "can perform this task better than myself hence forth."

Confederacy felt it - his sincerity. That was always his feature-most attribute, his genuineness. Despite this alien emotion, Lee remained fundamentally the same. Stable and proud, almost like a statue. The man was a true renaissance painting in motion. Confederacy didn't know what to say to this impossible man. He tried to imagine the Army of Northern Virginia with anyone else at the helm, but he didn't try too hard. He knew in his blood that God had not created any such man.

"I hope you won't," was all he said. "I hope you won't."

* * *

The township of Gettysburg was bipolar this evening. Alfred had just returned from visiting a few makeshift hospitals to console and commend the wounded and also to take accurate count and memory of those who gave their last full measure of devotion. The horror and the sorrow there poisoned the air. The smell of death perpetually loomed. There men getting arms and legs sawn off, sometimes both. But this camp might as well have been a different country. The men here, they danced on their two legs. A group who recognized him raised their glasses to him with their two arms. They sang "Battle Hymn of the Republic," and "The Stars and Stripes Forever," like a gospel choir. They celebrated their triumphant victory, and they had every right to. But Alfred couldn't join them. The war meant a different thing to him than it did to them. He was envious of his people - that they could just forget the war for this moment and celebrate as if they'd just conquered the Earth. Alfred couldn't forget that the war was still ongoing, not even if he wanted to. Right now, General Grant was shelling Vicksburg after its long siege. He could feel it happening right now as he walked.

He reached Meade's tent and took the liberty to enter. "Ah!" Meade exclaimed in relief as he poured himself a whiskey. "Ah, Alfred!" he said. "How you doing?"

"Just got back from seeing the wounded. They're managing."

"Let me pour you a drink." He poured some whiskey into another glass. "You had quite a day. Well, three."

"Boy, isn't that an understatement!" Alfred chuckled slightly. He took a sip of medicine. "Geez! Reminds me of one of Ireland's signature brews!" Meade laughed at that.

"Cheers," he toasted. "To a great victory." Alfred accepted the toast. Then he stared into his brown glass and remembered the field today. Meade grew concerned with the long silence.

"Alfred," he inquired, "are you alright?"

"Hmm, yes, I'm alright," Alfred said.

"It's just that you seem a little out of it. I thought you'd be excited with the victory and all."

"No, I'm glad we won. It's just-" Alfred searched for a way to put it succinctly. "It's just...I had him today. On the battlefield." He looked at his general. "I had him and I let him go. I was certain that I could've killed him. I felt that it was so, and yet I didn't do it. And I can't figure out why."

Alfred returned to the brown glass. Meade stood up and put his hand on his shoulder. "You should trust your instincts," he said. "I could've pursued Lee and I didn't. I wasn't going to loose any more men. Not after these three days."

He reflected on his general's words and they made sense. But he couldn't find complete assurance in them. He sipped the whiskey and coughed.

"Agh!" he groaned. "I'm still to young for alcohol, I think." Meade laughed again. He checked his pocket watch. "Well, perhaps you're one more year there. Happy birthday, son."

Alfred smiled. "Thanks." It was July the Fourth. He had almost forgotten. He downed the remainder of his drink and said to Meade, "Thanks, Meade. I think I'm going to go out an join the troops if you don't mind. He stood up and walked toward the tent flap. "Of course," he said while smiling. "Go on right ahead.."

He left the tent and ran up to a group of his soldiers. "Hey bros!" he proclaimed. "We really kicked the Confederacy today! So Let's PARTY! WOOHOO!" His soldiers exalted him and raised them on his shoulders. They marched around with him, and they all sang at the top of their lungs, "The Star-Spangled Banner!" .

Alfred stood up on a platform and waved his flag over the chorus of partially drunken soldiers as they sang the big finish.

"OH SAY DOES THAT STAR-SPANGLED-

BANNNNNER YET WAAAAAVVVVE...

O'ER THE LAAAANNNNND OF THE FREEEEEEEE

AND THE HOME OF THE BRAAAAVVVEEE!"

It was the most beautiful rendition of the song that America will ever hear.

* * *

To Be Continued...

*It's funny because the attempt to seize the Round Tops at Gettysburg was done by the Texan Regiment. And America's glasses represent Texas. Just some Civil War humor there for any history buffs.

**A/N: **

I hope any Civil War fans enjoyed this story. Even if you're not the most adept at Civil War history, I hope you enjoyed it, too. This is the first chapter of at least a three-part story I wanted to do about the end of the American Civil War as it is one of the parts of history I feel I know well enough to write a story about. There aren't enough historical Hetalia fics oddly enough seeing as how there is literally thousands of years to choose from. I will probably upload the new chapter in about a week. Please REVIEW if you like the story as well as "Like," and "Follow," it. I really love the reviews and they give me the inspiration to continue stories.

Thanks and I hope to see you all again.


	2. 2) One and Un-Divided

It was early morning on April 9, 1865. Just a couple weeks before the anniversary of Fort Sumter. This was the day it ended. Or so America thought. They were at a small crossroads town called Appomattox Courthouse. It wasn't a battle, at least not in a conventional sense. Then again, this war was hardly conventional even from the getgo. The Confederates weren't putting up much resistance. Which was fine because the Union wasn't killing themselves trying to chase them. The plainness of this battle was abnormal, especially seeing as how they were here to capture General Lee. But the fighting wasn't intense. The rebel yell wasn't echoing across the fields. There were no artillery barrages or fierce cavalry charges. There was only the sound of sporadic and inconsistent exchanges of fire.

Alfred wasn't doing much work himself. He sat alongside his General, Ulysses S. Grant in his tent, waiting for something although he didn't know what. Despite the circumstances, he was calm. He could feel that the war was coming to an end. He smelled the dew on the grass. The air felt fresh.

"You don't want to go out on the field with the men, Alfred? Pick off some last few rebs while you can?" Grant said to Alfred.

"No, General," Alfred said, "I keep telling you I'm not here to kill any Southerners. I'm only going to kill the Confederacy."

"Quite right," Grant replied. "God, I'm bored," he said as he whipped out his flask and took a sip. America didn't mind it. When Abe first told him that Grant would be his new General-in-Chief, he was cautious at first. He read from some notable press that Grant was a notorious drunk. However, as he became aquatinted with the man, he came to realize that boredom was all he drank to. He also never drank when his wife was around which America found admirable. Working with the man had been quite an experience – exhausting, but interesting. At first, he thought the man was mad. He never allotted the Union any rest time, and even after defeats he would continue to toss his men at the Confederates as if he had millions of them.

"GRANT!" he remembered yelling at his general one day. "What are we doing? You're just throwing us at the rebels like no tomorrow! What is your point to all this!" he remembered yelling before Cold Harbor. Grant just shrugged it off and replied, "I'm using you to your full potential."

After awhile, Alfred saw his genius. He was turning weakness into strength. Grant knew that Lee was a better strategist than he was and that he could never fight Lee on Lee's terms. But Grant knew that the Union had an abundance of manpower over the Confederates, and was using it unlike his predecessors. He was always on top of the Army of Northern Virginia, never allowing it to rest, which meant that eventually Lee was going to make a mistake, one he could exploit. It was brilliant, except for the problem that the mistake never came. Lee always handled the situation coolly. But their lack of manpower and their inferior logistics finally caught up to them. They had to flee Richmond and were now surrounded here at Appomattox with no way to run.

Thinking about this, Alfred felt more secure with what he already knew - that the war was over. He remembered when he walked into Richmond for the first time in four long bloody years. "Your chair, boss!" he said to President Lincoln in the Confederate White House. Lincoln smiled proudly as he coolly sat at Jefferson Davis' former desk. He and his troops hollered joyously and threw their hats in the air like a college graduation. Alfred couldn't cheer long; however. He found no signs of the Confederacy in the city limits. He had fled with Lee and his army.

"Excuse me, sir," a Union private said as he approached his general and himself. Alfred was disturbed from his recollections. "Yes, private," Grant responded. He put his flask away. "What is it?"

There was a gray-uniformed man with him. "This rebel messenger rode up to our lines under the white flag, sir," he said. "He has a message from Lee." This was what Alfred was waiting for. He stood up as Grant received the message. Alfred waited anxiously while he read it.

Grant put it down. "He wants to surrender," he told Alfred.

"Really!" America exclaimed with a sudden burst of joy. "Dude, that's awesome! This war is over." He shot his hands up into the air.

"Yes, I'm going to write back and try to establish a location to do the signing."

Alfred agreed. After a couple hours, they finally managed to convince Wilmer McLean to lease his parlor to the affair. Oddly enough, Alfred ran into him once after First Manassas.

"Damn it all!" Alfred remembered him yelling. "I'm fed up with these armies. They blasted a hole in my kitchen! I'm moving to Appomattox Courthouse so I hopefully don't have to deal with anything more from the war!" History is ironic sometimes, Alfred thought.

America rode on a horse alongside his general toward McLean's residence. A platoon of blues accompanied them. As they approached Alfred detected his presence. They landed at the front door where a Confederate officer greeted them, as did Mr. McLean.

"General Grant, Mr. U.S.," he addressed them. Alfred saluted him out of courtesy. Alfred felt his 'brother.' He was close. He looked to some woods off from near the house, and saw a blonde-haired man in gray fleeing into them.

McLean shook their hands. "Mr. Grant," he said. "Mr. America. Good to see you again."

"Huh," Alfred said, 'oh, why yes, good to see you to, Mr. McClean."

"General Lee is in the parlor, sir, if you want to come in-"

Alfred left their company and began to trek for the woods much to Grant's concern. "Alfred, son," grant said to him. "Where you going? Don't you want to attend this?"

Alfred waved back to him, "I'll catch up," he said. "I just…just have to finish something."

Grant felt he understood, and let him go off to attend to his affair. Grant turned and walked into the house.

America reached the periphery of the woods and entered. It wasn't long before he found him perched up against the side of a tree. He was sick and weak, barely able to stand. He sweat profusely. Alfred could see quite lucidly that he was dying.

He withdrew his pistol from his belt and loaded it. "You don't look too good," he finally said.

The Confederacy heard his voice, and he laughed faintly. "Hehehehe, don't sound too concerned, Yankee."

"Well, because of you, many people have died. Because of you, blacks were enslaved and abused and treated as subhuman," the pistol was loaded, "so don't ask me to have sympathy for you." Alfred pointed the gun at him.

"HEHEHEHEHEHE!" the Confederacy laughed hysterically. He wheezed violently as he did so. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"What's so funny?" he asked his 'twin.'

"What's so funny," he responded. "You're so funny! You're too funny, North!"

"SHUT UP!" Alfred yelled in a sudden fit of rage. _How can he still be so cocky while dying! _"I'm not the North," he continued. "I'm not North, nor South, nor East, nor West. I'm every direction! I'm America! The United States of America! You got that!?"

"Yeah, I got that…America!" he moaned. He managed to limp himself up further.

"So, tell me, why're ye goin' to shoot yerself?"

"Huh? Are you deranged! I'm no-" America looked to see that he was now pointing the gun at his own temple. "Wha-!? AGH!" He yelled as he tossed the pistol to the earth. He lost control of his own limb. Just like before. Just like before he sprouted.

He laughed hysterically once more. "HAHAHAHAGHAGHAGHAGH! ACHA ACHGA!" he coughed violently.

"Look at ye! Threatenin' to kill imaginary friends! Yer deranged, 'Merica! Mental!"

"What!? No, I'm not. YOU ARE!"

"Think about it…yer America, right? Always have been and always will. So, I mistreated the blacks? No. YOU did! I caused all this suffering and carnage? No. YOU did! Here, why don't you have some of your old thoughts back."

"Agh!" America grasped his head and fell to the ground, wincing in pain. "Ugh! What's…what's happening!"

He could hear thoughts piercing through his consciousness. Thoughts he forgot about since the separation. Thoughts he forgot he had. Racist thoughts. Xenophobic thoughts. Thoughts that were anti-Catholic. Anti-socialist. Anti-civil rights. Thoughts that ran against everything he wanted to believe in.

"THESE AREN'T MY THOUGHTS! THEY'RE YOURS! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

"Oh, so now I'm REAL, am I? Oh, I see! You don't want me back if it's the parts you don't like!"

Alfred tried to come with a retort, but his head! He could only focus on the pain. "Just…get-" He tried to stand, but he fell limp to the Earth again. The Confederacy fell after him. Alfred fought to bring himself to his knees. He fell forward again, but he caught himself. Head raised, he saw the Confederacy crawling toward him.

"Ye wanna know why this war took four damn years? You wanna know why ye didn't fight me fully? Why ye didn't kill me at Gettysburg?" The Confederacy reached Alfred and grabbed his head. Alfred looked into his eyes. They were dark now. He was tearing blood.

"Because I'm yer savage side. Yer fightin' spirit!" he continued as he shook him. "I'm the one who drives you to expand and expand even if it means the expense of others! The madness! The racism! The elitism, well-!" he briefly paused, "the elitism is actually you you, not me me. But my point is that it's all intertwined! It's all one package, America!"

"Errrrggghhh!" he winced. "No, it's not! This war….errrr….it was abou-" he winced again, "it was about more than that! It's what Abe said! It was to build something higher! 'To bring about a new birth of freedom!' To make me better! It wasn't to get you back! It was to exorcise you!"

"Hehehehe," he winced in pain. "Yes, that's where you play into it all, all right. Yer elitist ways. Yer intellectualism! Ye'll repress my actions just fine. But you'll never EXORCISE ME, America! I'll always be in you!"

Alfred lost all ability for rational thought. He fell back on his side. The Confederacy fell down, too. The two brothers looked at each other. "The thing is," he said, "the thing is you think you're so great! So transcendent! You like to fashion yerself as the hero, but yer not! I know you better than anyone, America!" He grimaced. His voice became discombobulated. His speech became out of sync with his mouth. He extended his hand to America, and America returned it. Their fingers barely touched. "Yer nothing more than a racist, imperialist brute who'll stamp on ANYONE who gets in his way!"

America began to fall into unconsciousness. He mentioned something about the West and about, "mother." Something about, "our mother," or rather, "his mother." But Alfred couldn't remember.

Alfred regained consciousness some time later. He didn't know how much time had passed. But he was alone. He stood to his feet and looked at his spot. There was no one there. He surveyed the whole woods. No one. "Well," he said aloud as he dusted the black dirt and the gray dust from his blue jacket, "looks like my split personality is gone." Alfred took notice of what he said. He referred to him as a split personality, not as his brother or anything. A good omen. He noticed a sparkle on the ground, and then he saw it – Texas. He smiled as he picked up his glasses and put them on. "Right there," he said. "Home sweet home - agh!" he winced. "A static shock!"

Other than Texas pinching his nose, Alfred felt different. Full. Complete. He was one once again, a thought that made him feel exuberant. But his joyousness came with feelings of sharp pain. "Agh!" he moaned again. The ripped railways and burned cities of the South all came plummeting on to him. "Agh! God, that's Atlanta right there." He limped out of the woods. "God, I really did a number on myself! HAHA!" Alfred laughed at his own joke. With each step he found walking easier. In no time he reached the McLean residence. Alfred couldn't have been too long because the horses were still there. Alfred went up to the door. The Union guard recognized him and allowed him entry. Alfred entered the parlor and much to his pleasure the surrender was still going on. He walked in just as they were finalizing the deal.

"Well, then," Grant said, "Do you need any provisions? Resources?"

Lee reflected and said, "I don't really need any provisions, but I do have many hungry men."

"I'll offer you twenty thousand rations," Grant said. 'That'll ease you up, I think."

Lee only nodded. "Thanks," he said, "my men will greatly appreciate this gesture. I deeply appreciate it."

Grant nodded as well. "Well, then," he said, "if there are no other matters, then I think we can adjourn."

Lee agreed. America walked into the parlor and over to the table. Lee saw him. "Mr. America," he said as he extended his hand. Alfred looked at the hand, and he went in and hugged the man. Lee was taken by surprise, as were the other gray and blue men in the room. Alfred stood up and one by one proceeded to hug every boy in gray in his presence.

"America, sir," Grant said after Alfred had hugged the last one. "It's time for us to depart." Alfred nodded and followed him out. He waved one last time to Lee and to the troops. Lee saluted him back, many of the Confederate soldiers followed suit. America returned it, and smiling, he left the house and hopped up on his horse. Once every last Union man was on theirs, they rode off. America asked his general to take the riding easy as he was still in pain. Grant complied. But with those papers signed and with food on its way to his famished people, his pains were mitigated.

* * *

TO BE CONCLUDED...


	3. 3) Oh, Captain! My Captain!

**Cautionary Note: **The word, "negro" is used in this chapter. Although not regarded as negatively as the other "n-term" it is still isn't entirely PC. Just know that the use of the term here is meant entirely to be historical and not intended to offend. I justify its usage here with the conviction that history shouldn't be watered down. It should be seen warts and all. Thank you, and enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Alfred spent the afternoon of April 14 taking lunch with one of his most internationally renowned citizens, Frederick Douglas. They sat in a café on Pennsylvania Avenue. Alfred drank an iced-coffee due to the typical Washington humidity. Douglas just had himself a corned beef sandwich. The two conversed freely, ignoring the puzzled looks of the other white patrons. "Don't worry," Douglas told Alfred, "I'm used to it. They're just not used to seeing a negro in a café. Y'see what I mean when I say there's much work to do." Alfred always enjoyed his outings with the man. It put things into perspective. He often forgot about the hardships of being even a free Black-American in this country until his outings with Douglas. He remembered how one cab almost refused to serve him until he recognized who Alfred was. Alfred never saw a man so humiliated in his life.

Alfred would also sporadically disrupt the conversations with occasional winces and groans. He was still hurting and he had to wear a cast now for safety reasons. Marks and bruises on his face were still healing. He looked quite the spectacle. Douglas consistently asked if he was well enough for the outing to which Alfred kept insisting he was.

"Am I to take it that you aren't excited about the emancipation, then," Alfred said in between sips of his coffee. "After all, you've been quite critical of my boss in the past."

"Not at all," Frederick Douglas responded.

"So, you're just skeptical with my boss's vision of it?"

"No, again mistaken. I have no criticism of Mr. Lincoln's honor on the matter. My past criticisms were directed simply to his apparent unwillingness to go the full distance even though the end line was always within his sights." Alfred enjoyed his talks with the orator. He had such a commanding voice and great articulation that put many of his congressmen to shame.

"So, you are onboard with the emancipation and you like my boss's vision for it," Alfred replied, "so then what's the issue, Fred."

Frederick took a bite out of his sandwich. He put it down and took up his napkin. "I'll tell you, Alfred," he said between dabs of his napkin. After he swallowed completely, he said, "All I mean to say is that emancipation and equality do not necessarily equate. Sure we may now be free, but will we be able to pursue economic independency free from threat? Will they be able to participate in government? Will they be active members of our society? I mean, think about it Alfred. I'm well-known in high circles not just here, but in Europe as well. I've met both her majesty and Mr. Britain himself in Buckingham Palace, but yet I've never so much received an invitation from the White House."

"Well, I see that point. But I want you to know that I eagerly wish one day that you and I can eat in the White House together!"

"Yes, I know you do, America," Frederick Douglas responded.

"And I ensure you that Abe intends to do everything in his power to rebuild a strong south for both blacks and whites alike! He's really excited about the prospect!"

"Well, it's not Mr. Lincoln that I'm concerned with. It's that devil of a vice-president."

"Oh, Johnson," Alfred waved his hand dismissively, "Pfft! Don't worry about him."

"He's open on his views of the negroes' role in society," Douglas said.

Alfred shared Douglas's worries. Although he would never publically say, there was something about the man that seemed a little shady. Still, he continued in his best efforts to assure his friend. "Well, yes, but the VP has no official power over governance as you well know," Alfred said. "It'll be fine." 

Frederick Douglas accepted Alfred's assurances. "Well, it was good meeting with you as ever, Mr. America."

"And you two, friend!" Alfred shook his hand as they rose.

"I'll do you better than an invitation! One day, you'll sit in the oval office behind the desk!" 

He laughed, "HAHA! Alfred! You're optimism knows no limits."

"Haha," Alfred laughed with him. "Yeah, you're right. But one day, a Negro-American will be in the White House!"

Alfred figured he would just laugh again, but surprisingly he didn't. "Hmmm," Douglas mulled it over. "Perhaps. But I doubt I'll live to see it. Or even my grand-children."

Alfred saw him to a cab and the two waved one last time before the carriage took off.

Alfred clutched his side as he walked. His nose was also in pain. The glasses kept pinching it. There was still fighting going on in Texas. But America refused to take them off. They were his.

With nothing better to do, he decided to head to the White House and check on Abe. With the war over, they both found themselves with more time on their hands than they knew what to do with.

He walked up the lawn from the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance. "Hey," he asked a staff member, "do you know where Abe is?"

"Oh, he's in the office." 

"Thanks."

He went to the office door and knocked. "Hey Abe," he shouted. "Dude, you busy?"

"Ah, no Alfred!" Abe responded. "Come in."

Abe was sitting at his desk looking at some papers. Alfred plopped himself down on the couch.

"How could you still be doing work? Aren't you tired?"

"Hehehe!" Abe laughed. "The war may be ending, Alfred. But that doesn't mean there aren't tasks that need attending to."

"I guess," Alfred replied nonchalantly. "But you should take rest for yourself." 

"Ah, this isn't much. I have been taking it more easy actually." Abe put his paper down and went over to the couches. "How're you feeling more importantly?" Abe asked as he sat down on the opposite couch.

"I'm all right. Most of the aches are subsiding. My glasses still aren't fitting correctly, but they're becoming more comfortable. I'm sure they'll fit again when the Texas army finally surrenders."

"That's good to hear."

"How are you holding?" Alfred asked his president. "I know that this has been a hard four years for you."

"I keep myself preoccupied, friend."

America sat himself up despite the small pains. "Is Mary Todd well?"

"She's coping. It's not easy, but she's coping well enough."

"I'm sorry again for that. How you were able to continue on after loosing two kids, Abe! I mean," Alfred couldn't think of how to end that statement.

Abe shrugged. "It wasn't easy. But you're support helped, America."

Alfred smiled. "Thanks," he said, "and yours, too!" He looked at his president. He was old. His wrinkles had now consumed most of his face. There were spots of snow on his chestnut hair. Yet, his eyes still sparkled with vitality.

"Why don't you come to the show this evening? With us?" Abe asked. "It's suppose to be very funny."

"Ugh! I don't know. What's it again?"

"Our American Cousin. Come on! Come out with us. It would mean the world to Mary."

"I don't know," Alfred said as he lay back down. "I mean, it's one of Britain's plays! It's probably just going to make fun of me." Alfred said the country's name with some disdain. Abe laughed at it.

"Yes, it's British," he said, "but I doubt that Mr. Britain himself actually penned the script."

"Hmmm," Alfred closed his eyes, "still!"

"Ah, come on! It's supposed to be very amusing. We'll only be going to the Ford Theater. It's not too far. And if you hate it, you can leave."

"Hmmm, all right then!" Alfred said. "But only because it'll mean the world to Mary Todd!"

"Haha! I'll be sure to tell her that."

"You better," Alfred chuckled. He stood up. "Grant is going with his wife as well, isn't he?"

"Ah, no unfortunately. Our wives hate each other so he declined to come. Instead, Major Rathborne is coming with his fiancée."

"Hmmm, all right, then," Alfred said, "I better head back home and change. I'll meet you there."

"All right, ol' friend. See you there."

Alfred left the White House for his private residence, which wasn't too far from the people's house. America did have a room in the White House, which he did occupy more consistently in times of danger when lots of things were going on that he had to be informed of, but when things were calmer, he tended to remain in his own apartment up the avenue. He went into his living room and plopped himself down on his sofa.

He read a little of the new Walt Whitman poems that were just released celebrating the end of the war, but he lost focus as he grew weary. He fell asleep, and he dreamed about the vast West - about riding horses out there in the deserts and the plains as eagles soared majestically overhead. These dreams were certainly a far cry from the nightmares he had before the war, before his shadow gained intelligence. These dreams were consoling. Gave him hope. There was something about the western territories that always enticed Alfred. There was just something about them that made him feel free. They made him feel like America. Just being that even further away from those ridiculous European countries gave him an even greater sensation of ease. America didn't particularly remember France and his boss Napoleon marching across Europe stirring trouble or stupid Britain and Prussia's reactions to it because he was too busy checking out the Louisiana territory at the time. 

With the Civil War now over, America had no doubt left in his mind that out there was where he was going to find his future – his purpose.

He awoke and checked the clock – 6:00 pm. "Better get ready," he said aloud. He went into his scullery and made himself some dinner.

"Ugh!" America sighed, "Abe's probably gonna want me to wear my finer clothes." He scoffed. He hated having to wear finer clothes like some overstuffed European noble. America tried to put on his suit, but the tightness of it hurt his arm. "Gah! Forget it!" America shouted. He decided to just wear his blue army outfit. It was more comfortable and fitting.

America left his place and took a cab down to the Ford Theater up in Gallery Place. The cab-driver was a black man, and he reminded Alfred of his earlier conversation with Douglas. He knew it without hesitation – what he said was correct. No matter how long coming, there will be a black president one day. The cab arrived at the theater and Alfred tipped the cabby generously. 

"Thank ye, sir!" he said and he rode off down the street. Alfred went up to the ticket booth. The manager was there, and recognizing who he was, he let him in without charge. Just one of the many advantages of being a country.

"I'm sorry," Alfred said, "but I don't have a ticket for a seat although I'm with the president this evening-"

"There's always a seat for Mr. America in this house," the concierge said. "We'll place an extra seat up in the presidential box for you." 

Alfred thanked him, and he was escorted to the presidential box. He must've been early because Abe and his party weren't here yet. A lobby boy brought a seat to the box and Alfred helped himself. He thanked the men again. 

"Our pleasure," the concierge said. "And congratulations on the win! We were rooting for you!" 

"Well, thanks, but I couldn't have done it without you!"

The concierge laughed and he offered to bring Alfred something. Alfred declined, and he left Alfred to his own devices. Alfred surveyed the auditorium from his box. It was a pleasant theater. He watched the people below take their seats. There was a buzzing sound in the air – the sound of the mindless chatter. After awhile everybody had taken their seat.

"Bro," America said, "Abe and his crew are really running late."

The lobby boys started putting out the candles.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the manager came up on stage. "Please welcome a very special guest this evening to tonight's performance. Sitting in the executive box, Mr. America himself, Alfred F. Jones!" He pointed to Alfred's position. 

"Ah, here we go," Alfred arose and waved as the audience stood up and cheered for him. There was whistling and cheering. "Thank you," Alfred responded. "Thank you. Really, I didn't do anything. It was all you, dudes! Couldn't have coped. And you too, ladies! Can't forget about you!"

The crowd calmed down and retook their seats. America followed suit, and the show began. "Dammit Abe!" America exclaimed as he noticed the president still hasn't come. "It's just like you to make me come to a show begrudgingly and then no-show yourself. I bet this all part of some elaborate prank." He chuckled, "Heh, Honest Abe? More like Tricky Abe! Or Trick Lincoln, or-NO! Slick Lincoln! Yeah!" Alfred liked the sound of that.

Accepting that he was already here, Alfred decided to quit resisting and watch the show. They were his actors after all, even if he did consider the theater a more European thing. The actor told a joke and the audience laughed. Alfred did, too. "HAHA!" he laughed, "That's EXACTLY how I act over at England's place!" It was a pleasant show, just what he needed actually to help ease him and forget ol' pseudo-Alfred.

_I might even write England after, _America thought, _and tell him that the show was quite amusing._

At the end of one act, the manager came back onto the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said again, "it is my personal honor to introduce to you, the President of the United States – Mr. Abraham Lincoln."

The crowd stood up and applauded as the orchestra played "Hail to the Chief." Alfred stood up and clapped, too. After about thirty or so seconds, Abe and crew came into the box. Abe shook his hand and waved to the audience. Mary Todd came over and hugged him.

"Hello Alfred!" she exclaimed.

"Hey there, Mary!" he said, "You look well!"

She moved over as the major and his fiancée came over to introduce themselves. Alfred accepted their greetings. After another few moments, everyone took their seats and the next act began. After the scene began to settle, Alfred leaned over to Lincoln and whispered, "Punctual as ever, boss! Great quality I love to see in my presidents!"

"Hehe, indeed, my boy," Abe said. "Sorry. It was impossible to get a cab."

Mary Todd Lincoln moved her head in front of Abe, "Hello Alfred!" she waved again.

Alfred waved again. "Hello Mary!" he said. "You're looking wonderful! Very young, in fact." 

"Oh, you!" she waved dismissively at him, smiling. They turned their attentions back to the play.

"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sockdologizing ol' man trap!"

Everyone erupted into laughter.

BAM! There was a ringing in Alfred's ear and he smelt gunpowder. There were screams coming from next to him and from the audience. So much was going on he swore he was on the battlefield again. He turned around to find his president slumped forward seemingly unconscious. Mary Todd was screaming her lungs out. In the corner, Major Rathborne was wrestling a man, who stabbed him, prompting a roar from his wife. The man then jumped from the box and landed awkwardly on the stage below. Alfred got a clear look at his face, and saw it was John Wilkes Booth. He yelled something as he limped off backstage. Until this day, people still ask Alfred what it was that Booth actually shouted – "Sic semper tyrannous," or, "The South is now avenged." Alfred didn't know, he was too much in a state of shock. He didn't care all too much either. The only thing he knew to do at the time was attend to his fallen leader. 

"Boss!" he shouted as he shook him. "Boss! ABE! Speak to me, Abe! ABE!"

He died the following morning. America went into a long period of mourning.

* * *

**A/N: **That is the conclusion of this story, with the exception of the epilogue I plan to write. I don't think Frederick Douglas was actually in Washington, D.C. at the time of the assassination, I don't know. But that scene was intended just to be some artistic freedom to bring attention to the race matter in America. It's impossible to divorce it from the Civil War - it was a major facet of it no matter how some historians try to revise it otherwise. Also, although Appomattox Courthouse is regarded as the official end to the Civil War , there was still fighting going on in other parts of the country. Texas was the last state to surrender and rejoin the Union, which didn't occur until the latter half of April, after Lincoln's assassination. Guess Lincoln really is a kind of American Moses - he didn't live to see the full promised land.

Peace.


End file.
